Negotiations, or A Day In The Life of Dawlish
by Harrus
Summary: Set during HBP, before the mass breakout of Death Eaters imprisoned for the breakin at the Dept. of Mysteries. A blondhaired aristocrat is wasting away in his prison cell, but a group of Aurors comes acalling. Spoilers: OoTP, HBP


A/N: This is my first completed short story, and my first stab at a Harry Potter fanfiction. Characters, situations, and places aren't mine, but the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, Raincoast, etc. Thanks very much, and hope you enjoy the read!

The wrenching sound of steel grating against stone screamed through the rough-hewn hallway, startling a number of its residents who had become accustomed to the cloying silence that normally settled within the building. More importantly, hairs stood on end as protective wards shimmered and shifted, allowing a small group access to the remaining length of the passage.

A small, bunched contingent of Aurors marched purposefully past the gleaming steel gate, which promptly slammed shut as the last passed through, nearly taking one man's heel off. He jerked his foot forward instinctively and stumbled, wincing. A firm pair of hands straightened him as he set back embarrassingly into formation.

"Enough, Dawlish," spat a voice. "At least try to _act_ professional, for Merlin's sake!"

The man known as Dawlish stammered a quiet apology, glancing to the floor as they walked. The worn, pocked granite seemed to go on for ages before the tight-formed group came to a sudden halt. Set back within the wall was a solid iron door that might have been used to secure a high-risk safe. The air fairly crackled with passive defensive spells within the metal, and Dawlish gulped nervously.

The Auror at the forefront of the group, a tall, bald black man, pointed his wand at the door. It slid seamlessly and silently into the aperture, casting a square of light into the dark room within.

The figure within cringed visibly at the sudden illumination, bringing an arm up to shield his eyes, uttering a soft cry of protest as he did so. Oblivious – or perhaps simply uncaring – of his discomfort, the leader of the small group gestured for Dawlish to retrieve the prisoner.

Avoiding the critical stare of his peers, Dawlish bumbled his way into the cell and warily slid his hands under the other man's arms, pulling him to an unsteady standing position with a grunt of exertion. Beneath the black and white prison robes, torn and faded from neglect, Dawlish felt he could practically pluck a tune on the emaciated, nearly skeletal ribcage of the starved man.

Slowly, carefully, Dawlish assisted the man's progress to the doorway of his cell, glancing in a twitchy, nervous fashion from the expectant Aurors in the hall to the once-dangerous figure he now had to literally keep from collapsing.

Lucius Malfoy blinked once, twice, three times in an effort to resolve the blurred madness before him. His eyes slitted against the precious light, skin so pale and waxy nearly translucent from prolonged darkness, and frame warped from his stay in the hellish place, the aristocrat was barely a pale shadow of his former self.

"Is this it?" He croaked, coughing. "Am I to be executed, then, Shacklebolt?"

His voice bore no ire, no righteous indignity, but rather a sense of finalized acceptance.

Kingsley Shacklebolt returned Malfoy's narrowed gaze with an expressionless, calculating look.

"Not today, Lucius. In fact, a release might be negotiable, should you play your cards correctly."

Evidently, this was the last response Malfoy had expected. His eyes, slitted against the brightness of the hallway, snapped open in shock, but after a moment his face fell. "Surely you don't think such petty jests will work on me, Shacklebolt? Hate me all you will, but not even now will I deign to be your playtoy, to be made a joke of." His voice was hoarse, but the glare Malfoy aimed at Shacklebolt could have pierced armor.

Abruptly, Shacklebolt and two other Aurors at the head of the group were forcefully propelled out of the way with a sharp crack and a hissing afterburn. Lucius himself started, taking a step back into the shadows of his cell as he instinctively reached for a wand that was not there.

From the hollow in the middle of the contingent of Aurors, revealed by the forcibly moved Shacklebolt, a pale, drawn Narcissa Malfoy stood, wand raised. As her gaze met Lucius', they paused for a moment, almost in disbelief. Then Narcissa stepped forward and embraced him, sobbing into his shoulder. "Oh, Lucius, what have they done to you?"

Lucius, for his part, was unable to move for a moment, stunned. His arms slowly wrapped around his wife's back, and he held her close as she whimpered, lidding his eyes. "Nothing more than I deserved, if you asked them," he bit out.

"Your wife's come here for a reason, Malfoy. You're doing no one any good in this hellhole. Even we see this much," Shacklebolt stated. "You were privy to many secrets belonging to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, more than any of the other Death Eaters we have in custody. You have information we want. We can offer you freedom, amnesty, and protection."

Lucius sneered across the way at the Auror from over his wife's shoulder. "If you seriously believe that I would give up the very information that I've sworn a blood oath to preserve in secrecy, then you're a bigger fool than I thought, Shacklebolt."

At his words, Narcissa drew back, looking up into her husband's face. "Lucius, you must understand! Tell him what he wants to know, and we can be a family again! You and I, and Draco, unmolested and free to live as we want!" Before Lucius could protest, she took his hands in hers. "Your loyalty to Him has been unwavering, I know that. I supported you, and I supported Him…but, Lucius, he cares nothing for us anymore. In his eyes, you've failed him, and he intends to revenge himself by taking it out on our only child!"

"Draco can take care of himself," Lucius stated smoothly. He disengaged himself from Narcissa and shook his head. "I refuse to betray the Dark Lord, regardless of the false hopes that these buffoons have clouded your mind with, Narcissa. I'm sorry," he sighed, cold grey eyes looking stoically into watered blue, "it pains me to see you this way, but…the repercussions would be…severe."

Shacklebolt tossed his head defiantly. "Severe? Lucius, I don't care. I know what happened to Karkaroff, to Regulus Black, and Merlin knows how many other deserters, but we learn from past attempts! Even if we had to keep you moving from safehouse to safehouse until he falls, we will! No expense will be spared to ensure the safety of you and yours if you'd just tell us what we need to know!"

Lucius glanced from his wife's expectant, hopeful gaze to Shacklebolt's strained, pleading stare. Silence. Finally, a small smile graced his features, and Narcissa gave a cry of joy. "I do this not for the good of the wizarding world, as I'm sure you'd like to believe, Shacklebolt, but for my wife and son. The Dark Lord has become…unstable. Do not let it be said that I am so as well. I shall tell you what you want, but my information extends only so far. I must…remain in his graces for a time, as must Narcissa, if we hope to survive, or this," he grimaced, baring his left forearm to reveal the Dark Mark, stark and squirming against his skin, "will be my undoing. Give me your word that you will do everything in your power to defeat him if I reveal my end of the bargain."

Shacklebolt nodded readily. "Of course. Actually, I'm afraid we Aurors can't do much. You know the prophecy, Lucius, it's what brought you here! Our hope relies with the Potter boy."

Lucius' face twisted as though he had bitten into something unpleasant, but he took his wife's hands and looked into her eyes, eyebrows raised, a disbelieving scoff underscoring his words. "Then we must hope for his success."

Narcissa nodded, taken aback slightly at her husband's words. The Malfoys were quickly ushered on by Shacklebolt, who shut the cell door with a wave of his wand. "First and foremost, the Mark has been more and more active," Lucius began as the group strode swiftly down the corridor. "I suspect that the Dark Lord will attempt to regain those of us who were captured in the Department of Mysteries, or at least those he believes will prove useful in some way. I suggest…"

Their voices trailed off as they made their way toward a more neutral part of the prison. As their footsteps faded and silence slowly settled into the stone walkways once more, a slight disturbance could be heard. A faint, nearly indiscernable thumping of flesh against steel, again and again, accompanied by muffled shouts of, "Let me out! Shacklebolt! Jones! Anyone…"

Such is a day in the life of Dawlish.

Well, there you are! Hope you enjoyed it, and please, review! (Or Lucius might, I dunno, drop off a cliff or something. XD)


End file.
